


our eyes meet and i get hold of the whole world

by humminghearts



Category: GOT7, JJ Project
Genre: small town AU, tag under unfinished drafts, very self-indulgent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-25
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2019-12-07 19:25:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18239207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/humminghearts/pseuds/humminghearts
Summary: Jinyoung accepts a job offer and moves to a godforsaken little town across the country to teach for a year. He’s still young, but loneliness has made a home out of his bones years ago. Unlearning the feeling might be a very tricky thing, in the long run. (Or, perhaps, it might not.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hello this a very rough very stupid draft of a jjp fic i've been writing in the middle of night or on my way to work or when i'm supposed to be in class and i'm there physically but not Emotionally etc and my plan WAS to only post it once i'd finished it but
> 
> i got stuck
> 
> and i'm still figuring out how to go on from where i've stopped it
> 
> well,
> 
> i didn't specify the town but in my head this is set somewhere around the boseong area

The bus halts to a stop so violently Jinyoung startles awake with his heart in his mouth.

“Last stop,” the grey-haired driver half announces, half squawks, and jumps out of the vehicle not bothering to make sure the passengers are getting out as well.

 _Passenger,_ Jinyoung corrects himself mentally, realising he’s alone. Even his mind-voice sounds groggy. He has a mild crick in his neck and his body feels heavy with exhaustion, so he struggles to push his battered luggage and scruffy duffel bag to the front of the bus, then down the few steps, and barely avoids falling face first on the concrete.

The Terminal is shaped like a box, washed-out and dreary; it stands as imposingly as any mediocre building manages to stand, but there’s a glimpse of dark green mountain tops peeking from behind it, shying away under a thin layer of mist. Gloomy clouds loom over the mountains, low, ominous—the weather forecast had discarded any possibility of rain this late in February, and yet the sky looks ready to collapse.

It’s cold. Not as cold as Seoul usually gets around this time of year, but cold. Jinyoung shivers in his jacket in spite of it.

 _Jinyoungah,_ Professor Choi had said before graduation in July, disregarding any pretense at formalities. She’d been his favourite professor from day one, his mentor throughout his academic years, his pillar until his very last day. _I’ve got you the perfect job. I think it’s going to be really good for you. I mean it. It’ll be an amazing experience._

Because Jinyoung trusts every word to come out of her mouth, he had promptly accepted the offer. It would be really good for him, she’d said, it would be an amazing experience, she’d said, and it would be one more thing to write down on his CV. He’d wasted no time deliberating about the fact that he were to start as a full-time teacher after not longer than two years as a TA, and freshly out of University. He’d wasted no time deliberating about the fact that he were to move to a little town he’d ever only heard of once or twice in his 23 years of life.

 _Jinyoungah,_ Professor Choi had said, smiling affectionately at his eagerness. _You’ll be in good hands. That is my hometown, and I hope you can treat it with much love, can treasure it as much as I do. It’ll open your eyes to the different realities of teaching. It’s going to be really good for you._

“Hello! You must be Park Jinyoung!” A small lady approaches him in hasty steps, an enthusiastic grin plastered across her face. She’s all chubby rosy cheeks and unruly curls and agitated hands, and by the looks of it she’s the same age as Professor Choi, in her late fifties or early sixties. Jinyoung bows politely. “Welcome, welcome! I’m Mrs. Park, I’m the principal of our school. I’ve heard only great things about you. I could _feel_ dear Mrs. Choi is extremely fond of you during our monthly phone calls! I taught all three of her children when I was the head teacher responsible for the Math department, you see, they grew up right here with their grandmother. Bright and quick-witted, the three of them. I gotta admit I had the softest spot for her youngest, little Youngjae. Have you met any of them by any chance?”

“No, ma’am, I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting them, unfortunately.” Jinyoung’s brain is still rebooting, haziness clinging to it, and Mrs. Park talks fast, throws around dialects unthinkingly. It takes him a while to catch up. He’s so used to the Seoul standart accent and dialect he’s neglected his own, though _this_ is not quite it. A wave of homesickness threatens to wash over him. He refuses to acknowledge it.

“Ah, that’s completely alright, dear. You lead awfully busy lives in that big city.” She steers him towards a ramshackle truck parked on the curb, a firm grip on his elbow. Chatters on, friendly, motherly, “I’m giving you a ride to your new home, dear. And don’t worry about not owning a car. You’ll walk everywhere. Everyone does.”

The town spreads itself over hills and slopes and flat fields, mazes of endless green, stretches of farmlands and old houses for miles. They’re surrounded by mountains. Silent, watchful— _kinda creepy_ , he muses while he watches them back through the window. Watchful mountains, how appropriate, how symbolic: people in small towns are known for always sticking their noses in each other’s business for a reason. It’d be funny if it wasn’t actually terrifying.

The main road is predictable. Rows of family business ranging from clothes stores to a bar to a local food diner-like to a couple of restaurants. A fried-chicken place, an organic local market, a shabby convenience store. No movie theatre. No night club. No neon sign above a questionable pizza joint, no neon signs at all. Turning right and driving up for five more minutes, finally, the school.

“It isn’t much, you see,” Mrs. Park states, casual, nonchalant. Jinyoung doesn’t miss the slight defensiveness in her otherwise kind tone of voice. “But we’re decent people. We’re honest and hardworking. We might not have those fancy Seoul commodities, and most of us didn’t get the opportunity to pursue a higher education when we were younger. We didn’t have the money. But we’re good people. We’re good people, understand?”

“I wouldn’t ever think you’re not good people, Mrs. Park,” Jinyoung says softly. The bitter side of him, the sullen side, the resentful side, which he tries so hard to keep caged and locked and buried in the deepest corners of himself; those crooked sides of him tempt him to shoot a snarky remark at her. He smiles instead, terribly gentle. That seems to mollify her. “I’m grateful to be here. I’ll give my best.”

Mrs. Park titters. “I thought Mrs. Choi was a bit too infatuated and I shouldn’t believe everything she told me about you. I was wrong. You’re a charming kid, indeed.” She studies him for a moment, tilting her head in contemplation. Truck pulled up in front of the house, engine running, heat on full-blast. The murky afternoon fading fast out the window. “You’ve such sweet eyes. I hope you don’t mind my audacity. I can already picture the kids falling head over heels for you.”

The modest one-story house designated as his accomodation bears the same features of the nearby homes. It sits on the outskirts of the town centre, a fifteen minute walk to the school, and it holds a kitchen, a living area, a bathroom, and a bedroom. Accustomed to crammed apartments and pocket-sized rooms and even tinier bathrooms by now, Jinyoung finds it strangely comforting. Somehow it reminds him of home. Growing up in Jinhae, he had lived with his parents and sisters in a medium three-bedroom, one-bathroom apartment, though never in a house. Maybe it’s just that now he doesn’t feel like he’s stacking his whole existence inside an overly-expensive shoebox. Between Jackson and him they scarcely possess the adequate space to store their belongings, and half of Jinyoung’s evergrowing book collection has turned into his bedside table, since there’s no room for a bookcase.

“Any regrets yet?” Jackson asks, face obnoxiously close to the camera, round, puppy-like eyes blinking mischievously at him. Jinyoung grimaces as he finishes putting away his groceries. “Do you have hot water? Electricity? Will you be completely unreachable once your phone battery dies?”

“Would you get offended if I asked you that question about the entirety of rural China?”

“China’s huge, and that’d be dumb of you—alright, point taken.” He frowns, pouts a little. “Jinyoungie, don’t read too much into what I’m gonna say, but home feels empty without you.” He changes his tone into a whine then, “I miss you! Come homeeee!”

“Hey, Jack! Wanna go grab a bite with me and Gyeom? He’s waiting for me at that burger place he’s been crying to go for weeks.”

“Who the fuck was that?” Jinyoung hisses. “Are you bringing strangers to my apartment? What the fuck? It hasn’t even been 24 hours, you asshole.”

“Technically, it’s mine for the next twelve months,” Jackson dismisses cheerfully. “Sorry, gotta go! Talk soon! Remember to eat and drink water! Love you, byeeeeeeeeeee!”

 _i’ll kill you with my bare hands,_ he texts Jackson on KKT after being hung up on.

Jackson’s reply is a series of Chinese characters, and Jinyoung’s versed enough in his antics to know what the words mean without resorting to a translation app. He translates it anyway. Twice.

 **JacksonWang852, 18:56:** sorry i dont speak korean?? who are u

 **Park Jinyoung, 19:03:** go fuck yourself

The sudden realisation of his new reality hits him when he’s neatly unfolding his navy blankets on his yo. It’s early in the night still, but it’s quiet, it’s so very quiet. The silence borders on deafening. Winter clutches stubbornly to whatever is within reach of its chilly fingers, grabs unrelentingly at the marrow of the world, refuses to let go. It reshapes the town into something quieter, slower, sleepier, lifeless in its lethargy. Jinyoung gazes out the bedroom window to scan the faint shimmer of a handful of lampposts scattered on the fields. Soon the farmlands will start being tended to. Soon the children will be back in school. Soon, he reassures his nagging heart, soon his doubts will learn to quieten too.

He gulps down a painkiller for the crick in his neck before curling up under his blankets. He thinks about this tired, tired house, breathing a soothing lullaby for him, for his first night alone in an unfamiliar town. He thinks about the equally worn-out appliances in the kitchen, about the clashing brand new coffee machine left by the previous tenant, who had been a foreign teacher at the school. Old, he thinks. Silent, he thinks. Broken, he thinks.

And, as he falls asleep, a last fleeting thought, _this is a very lonely place._

 

 

 

 

What remains of February is spent exploring the town and meeting the locals and getting acquainted with the school staff. Locals _are_ friendly—it’s just the sort of friendliness that conceals a bit of a grudge at first. At least his coworkers appear to be genuinely pleased to have him. Sungjin, the music teacher, and also Mrs. Park’s son, tells him with an apologetic smile, _Don’t fret about it. They’re wary after the last two teachers we had. They think you’re like them, that you believe you’re better, you know? They’ll get used to you._

Mark has it worse. He’s fresh meat like Jinyoung, but he’s target to monotonous comments that only vary from _He doesn’t look American_ to _Americans don’t have faces like that._ He shrugs at the offences, unbothered, and goes on with his life.

March brings warmer temperatures and the bloom of cherry blossoms and the beginning of school year. The introductory moment with the kids is one of Jinyoung’s favourite parts of the job, because he gets to know them at the same pace they get to know him. They ask him how old he is, and if he can speak other languages ( _Yes, I can speak Japanese!_ ), and if he’s more fluent in Korean or Japanese. What is his mother’s name? Does he have a dog? When is his birthday? Is he married? Does he have a girlfriend? And it’s always a little funny when the kids aren’t sure if they hate him or love him yet, so they keep glancing suspiciously at him, hesitant to maintain eye contact.

The first week rolls into the second, then into the third, and then April is right around the corner already. His kids are not as developed as other kids their age Jinyoung had taught back in Seoul, and less than half of his class are on the appropriate reading level for their grade. Their writing is concerning. Jinyoung sits in Mrs. Park’s tiny office and almost breaks down in front of her out of sheer frustration at himself. He swallows his anguish, clears his face of emotions, and stares at her.

“Jinyoung,” she says, soft and gentle and compassionate. He feels like one of the kids, suddenly, being consoled after a mortifying failure. “You need to remember who these children are. Most of them are sons and daughters of farmers who can barely write themselves. Their parents want nothing more than a good life for them, they want them to have what they never had. It’s a spark of hope, and any hope is better than none. So, dear, yes, these kids have nothing on the city kids, but they _are_ curious little things, aren’t they? So this is what you do, like you promised: you give your best. You help them. You guide them. _As best as you can._ Don’t give up on our kids, Jinyoung. Please, don’t give up on them.”

 

 

 

 

 **JacksonWang852, 05:00:** are you even living ur life to the fullest if u never cry in the backseat of a taxi on ur way home???

 **JacksonWang852, 05:07:** sorry i missed ur call!!! :( was out w bammie and some other friends and got back like 5secs ago

 **JacksonWang852, 05:08:** it was a nice bday! its not the same thing w o u here tho >:|

 **JacksonWang852, 05:20:** miss u like mad wish u were here love u ill call u 2nite okay???

 

 

 

 

“They’ve English three times a week, and most of them _sleep_ for the whole fifty minutes of class.” Mark’s Korean is a work in progress, and Jinyoung’s average English skills aren’t perfect either, but they make do. He’s thankful for Mark’s presence, words lost in translation or not; apart from Sungjin and Jieun, the few locals about their age aren’t interested in engaging with them. “It’s frustrating. I mean, I get it, they think English has no use for them, there’s no point in learning it. It’s—ugh. Sorry. I’m sorry. Rough day. I’m exhausted.”

Jinyoung hums a noncommittal noise. “They’re teenagers who stay up till three in the morning playing computer games. Also, yeah, sorry, they do think learning English is pointless.”

Mark groans plaintively.

April is rainy and muggy, and the novelty of moving here has worn off rather quick, even with the breathtaking scenery. Jinyoung’s routine revolves around getting up at dawn, actually preparing breakfast, teaching his kids, going to the market twice a week for the sake of having something else to do. He has a lot of spare time on his hands. A dreadful amount of spare time. Sometimes the lack of maddening city cacophony suck-punches him so hard he loses balance for awhile. Sometimes he jerks awake in the middle of the night and swears he can hear the wail of a siren or the bark of a honk fading away, and fails to fall asleep again for a long time. In his hazy state of mind, lying on his back and staring at the ceiling, his thoughts drift to memories of riding the packed subway with Jackson, and eating at his favourite gamjatang place at ungodly hours on nights he couldn’t sleep, and browsing the secondhand bookshop near their apartment complex for hours on end.

The worst part of it is that he hadn’t been exactly _happy_ in Seoul. He’d been so busy attending his classes and studying and working and striving to survive in general—he’d been so busy, so busy at all times, it had gone unnoticed how miserable he really felt. And lonely. Utterly desolated, if it hadn’t been for TAing, and for Jackson, and for Professor Choi. He’d been spreading himself too thin. Again.

“Hey! Mark Tuan! Park Jinyoung!” Sungjin sprints up to them just as they’re stepping outside. The school is fairly empty once the clock strikes five; the small kids go home at four o’clock, while some of the older, more serious students stick around the library to study, as there aren’t private academies in town.

“What’s up,” Mark says, throwing Jinyoung a bemused look.

“Alright?” Sungjin grins. “My friends and I are taking the truck and going drinking in the town over. It’s a thirty-minute drive. Wanna join?”

“That’s very nice of you—” Jinyoung starts.

“Ah, come on, it’s Friday! Lee Jieun’s coming, you know her. And Jaebeom’s _nice_ enough, I suppose. Im Jaebeom, you guys haven’t met him, have you?”

“No—”

“Well, high time you do, then! Say, Jinyoung, do you have a driver license?”

“Yeah, but I haven’t touched a steering wheel since the day I got it.”

“That’s totally fine, I trust you, you can be our DD, right?” Sungjin beams, blinks amiable eyes at them. A buzzcut, a pair of curved eyebrows, a remarkable nose. He has an open, inviting expression on his face. “Mark’s coming, aren’t you, Mark? You have no excuses not to go, Jinyoung. It’ll be fun.”

Mark shrugs coolly.

“Jinyoung,” he says when they’re traipsing home. Morose, overcast sky above them, an annoyingly stuffy air enfolding them. “If you wanna drink tonight, I can be the DD. I’m not sure my license is valid in South Korea, but I’ll drive.”

“No, it’s fine. I don’t really drink, to be honest. I don’t mind.”

Sungjin picks them up at seven, Jieun on the passenger seat next to him, which leaves Mark and Jinyoung to settle on the truck bed across from Im Jaebeom. The temperature gets milder at night, chiller, and the fresh wind feels great against his skin. Mark rests his head on his shoulder, and Im Jaebeom’s gaze lingers on them for one, two, three, four, five seconds—then he’s averting his eyes, ignoring them altogether. Jinyoung’s cheeks and ears burn at the unexpected attention. He rolls his eyes skywards, focuses on breathing in, breathing out. His heart beats longingly in his chest. He hasn’t seen this many stars in so long. So long.

The sea smells like childhood, like memory, and although this town looks like every other ordinary seaside town it’s the smell that gets to him, and he can’t help the sharp sting of homesickness he’s been keeping at arm’s length for years. At 13, he’d had the habit of raiding on his sister’s purse for her cigarettes and biking to the seafront with Wonpil to smoke on Saturday nights, hiding at their very own secret spot where they could still see the ocean but would be invisible to prying eyes. They’d thought themselves so old, so mature, so badass. He’d listen to Wonpil ramble for hours, the tip of his cigarette burning bright orange as he inhaled, glimmering street lights casting shadows on his scrawny face. And such a nice face, too; scrawny, bony, blemished by teen acne, but so nice to look at. He’d listen to Wonpil ramble for hours, but his eyes had always been more preoccupied with memorizing the shape of his face, of his lips, of his jaw. And the curve of his neck. And the outline of his wrists. And—

Wonpil had moved to Canada four months before Jinyoung’s 15th birthday, before he’d had the chance to understand the truth behind his feelings for his best friend.

“Hello? Earth to Jinyoung!” Jinyoung hears Sungjin tease. He squints at him, scrunches up his nose in a stilted smile. His nape prickles at the realisation that they’re all staring at him. “You’re the youngest at the table, you should go get the drinks.”

“Don’t be a jackass, Park Sungjin,” Jieun scolds, pinching Sungjin’s earlobe, then tugging at it. He mumbles an affronted _ow!_ “Go get them yourself, you’re the oldest, it’s your duty to treat us.”

Sungjin scowls half-heartedly, but slides off his stool and wanders to the bar.

The word _old_ seems to fit the details of Jinyoung’s current life well: towns, houses, establishments, furniture, appliances. Here are washed-out wallpapers and mismatched chipped tables and stools and faint lights hanging from the ceiling. Here is a light bulb above their table, flickering a couple of times. Here is the old tiresome feeling of awkwardness weighing down on him, swaddling him tightly like a layer of second skin.

“I’m glad you’re here.” Jieun offers them a jovial smile. She’s pretty. Braided long, straight black hair, flushed cheeks, red lip tint on her lips. “You too, Jaebeomah. I thought I’d have to drag you out myself.”

Jinyoung finds himself putting together a mental puzzle with the bits and pieces they offer of their story as the night crawls unrushed. They’ve known one another their entire lives. Childhood best friends. Sungjin’s dad is from Busan, that’s why he’d chosen to study Music there. _That’s the most I saw him since my parents got divorced,_ he jokes, unruffled. Jieun had followed him, majoring in nursing; she tells Mark and Jinyoung in a stage whisper, _He wouldn’t have anything to do with me now that he had cool friends and girls chasing him everywhere. We’d go months without talking._ Sungjin laughs, _Ah, stop lying, Jieunah._ They had been surprised to discover Jaebeom had enrolled at a University in Seoul and not Busan; and this is where puzzle pieces start missing, and Jinyoung has nothing to fill with all the large spaces Im Jaebeom decides to leave empty, can’t guess the words he decides to leave unsaid. He stays impassive and uninterested the entire time, only opening his mouth to declare he isn’t drinking tonight, though his severe features soften whenever he shares a look with Jieun. It’s remarkably subtle, and Jinyoung wishes he hadn't noticed it.

They stumble out of the dingy bar to sit by the sea. Jinyoung’s heart aches again, gnaws at itself, like it’s haunted by the sound of waves crashing down so closely. This used to be what love sounds like, he broods, what are you grieving for, you stupid thing? Mark touches his hand, wraps slim fingers around his wrist. _You okay?,_ he asks gently, slipping into English, lips brushing against Jinyoung’s ear. Jinyoung nods. Mark doesn’t let go.

Sungjin and Jieun tangle themselves on the truck bed, muttering and bickering into each other’s faces, and Mark curls into a ball to take a nap during their drive back. Jinyoung reaches for the driver’s door, but Im Jaebeom stretches out a hand and levels him with a bored look.

“I’ll drive,” he says, laconic, terse.

Jinyoung furrows his brow in annoyance, bites his tongue to prevent a rude response. He climbs onto the passenger seat. Im Jaebeom climbs into the driver’s side.

Neither of them try to make conversation.

 

 

 

 

He’s having trouble sleeping. Again _._

Jinyoung blames the ever-present conspicuous silence. No city noise pollution, no neighbours arguing at three in morning in the apartment upstairs, the absence of Jackson’s loud snores. Jackson would leave his bedroom door ajar every night, aware of Jinyoung’s proneness to frequently lie wide awake across the hall; Jinyoung hadn’t ever said anything, asked for anything, yet Jackson had simply _known._ He’d figured out that all Jinyoung needs, in the end, is to feel that he isn’t alone. When it’d happen on several nights in a row, the anxious wakefulness, the restless toss and turn, Jackson would trudge into Jinyoung’s bedroom, bundled up in his Pokémon comforter, to scooch Jinyoung close to the wall and lay down beside him. It’d be easier, then, to close his eyes and drift off for an hour or two with Jackson snuggled up to him, nuzzling his neck in his sleep.

Jackson isn’t here now, and Jinyoung’s bone-achingly tired. He unlocks his phone to type a self-deprecating text, but changes his mind when 03:37 AM flashes warningly at him—for a scatterbrained person who can’t sit still long enough to watch a movie to the end, and who’s constantly running around searching for fleeting connections just to kill time, Jackson is absurdly tender-hearted. To wake up to a distressed text from Jinyoung would definitely freak him out, so Jinyoung sighs, opens Netflix, and picks a mind-numbing sitcom he’s definitely already seen a thousand times to keep him company until it’s time to get up.

He visits Jieun at the clinic; she prescribes him a natural aid, advises on exercising and adopting healthier eating patterns, drinking a cup of tea before bed. He takes up running at dawn, gets sore and exhausted, so frazzled his skin feels like worn-out secondhand clothes, or like piles of clogged dirty laundry hanging from his limbs—and still doesn’t sleep. The natural aid is no aid. He carries around a kind of unbearable weariness that’s hard to shake off, burdensome heaviness on his shoulders, and in his marrow, and in his heart, like he’s tender all over.

“Jinyoungah,” Mark says, very mellow, very gentle, very quiet, and Jinyoung’s insides melt at the softness of it. He misses being addressed this affectionately. He fights the urge to pull his phone out of his pocket and call Jackson. Or his mother. And that is a lot to unpack right now, a problem he has been sweeping under the metaphorical carpet and isn’t ready to deal with. “You look like shit. What’s wrong? When was the last time you had a proper night’s sleep?”

“I’m fine.” It’s the Thursday before the last weekend of April, a warm, drizzling evening, edges of the world blurry. Jinyoung’s pot of soft tofu stew lets up whirls of aromatic spicy steam. It’s so _homely_ he itches to call home to hear a familiar voice, but Jackson is probably out somewhere for the night, and he hasn’t spoken to his mother in months. Nor to any of his sisters, and Jinhae isn’t home now, like it’d been once, it hasn’t been home in forever. Fuck, he’s sleep-deprived. “I sleep perfectly fine. Let me pour you another glass.”

Mark is great at handling his alcohol, mostly; his body is still adjusting to the hazard that is the death in a bottle original-flavoured soju. Jinyoung chortles a little as Mark sways on his feet outside the restaurant. It isn’t intended to be mean, it just reminds him of the time Jackson had smuggled a bottle of cheap brand baijiu into their apartment and had insisted they drink it together as a bonding activity. _Why not,_ Jinyoung had sighed indulgently, even though to this day he has rarely ever consumed any alcoholic beverages impetuously, exhausted after weeks of an obstinate self-confinement for study marathons. He’d been foolish. Stupid. Naïve. That’d been a terrible, unwise decision that had ended with dangerous amounts of vomit and an array of expletives involved.

“Jinyoungah. Jinyoungie! Thanks for walking me home,” Mark drawls, nuzzles his jaw. Jinyoung steadies him with an arm around his waist. If this was a different situation, Jinyoung would take Mark’s actions for what they are: teasing, flirting, checking sensibly for reciprocity. Mark is very attractive, very beautiful in a curious way; he has a soft complexion, a soft nose, soft-looking lips, but keen, sharp eyes, and pointy, menacing cuspids teeth when he smiles. Jinyoung would preen on all his attention under different circumstances. If they had met in Seoul, perhaps—but out here Mark is the closest thing he has to a real friend. “Fuck, I’ll be dead tomorrow, won’t I.”

He waits for Mark to brush his teeth, lie down on the yo, a glass of water within reach. Turns off all the lights except the one in the bathroom. He leaves once he’s sure Mark is out like a light, and that there’s no risk of him dying by choking on his own puke.

He strolls back to the house through the longer way where he can walk by the river bank. The light rain has stopped a while ago, but massive dark clouds are gathering faster by the second, and he’s bound to get caught in the rain if he keeps this pace. He hasten his steps—

—to slip on a patch of wet mud and down to the river, soaking his pants and socks and shoes.

“Hey, you alright?”

Jinyoung looks up to find Im Jaebeom standing on the bank a few steps to his left. “Depends. How long’ve you been there?”

“Long enough to witness the whole thing.” Im Jaebeom helps him to his feet, and then pulls his hand back like it’s been scorched.

“Thank you.” For some reason he has the irresistible impulse to bow politely. So he bows. And hears the sleep-deprived version of himself utter in a conversational tone, “You’re out awfully late.”

“You’ve been up awfully early these days,” Im Jaebeom snaps, wrinkling his brow in a vexxed frown. Last week he hadn’t acknowledge Jinyoung’s presence when they had bumped into each other on a late run to the market, the only two customers as the owner urged them to hurry up. Two weeks ago he had crossed the road, smoothly, casually, not to cross paths with Jinyoung. “I wake up before sunrise everyday and you’re usually already out on the fields, running.”

“Oh,” says Jinyoung, eloquently. His pants stick to his skin, and he’s hyper aware of how uncomfortable drenched socks really are. “Sorry.”

“What are you goddamn sorry for,” Im Jaebeom mutters, but he doesn’t sound angry. He sounds just as frazzled as Jinyoung feels, like his very core is all creased and crumpled inside his body. The lights are few and far between the houses. Jinyoung catches a glimpse of the mauve pouches under Im Jaebeom’s eyes, and can only imagine what his own must look like. “You should go home. Looks like we’re getting a downpour tonight.”

“As should you.”

Im Jaebeom purses his lips, stoic as he regards Jinyoung carefully, gaze unwavering.

“I can’t find my cat,” he concedes, reluctant. “She got out and I can’t find her. She’s scared of the rain. Can’t even sleep when it’s raining. I need to find her.”

“I’ll help you.”

A flicker of astonishment crosses Im Jaebeom’s face. He clears his throat. Clears it again. “Thanks. You really should go home now.” He plods down the river bank, calling out desperately, “Nora! Nora, where are you, girl? Nora!”

Jinyoung wants, more than anything, to go back to the house, wants to change into his _dry_ pyjamas, but stubbornness is one of the many flaws he has never managed to lock and cram away. He follows Im Jaebeom, and Im Jaebeom tries to pretend he doesn’t know what Jinyoung is doing, but he doesn’t tell him off.

“Hi, baby, you’re okay, you’re okay. I’m not gonna hurt you. Are you Nora?” Jinyoung murmurs. The cat is shrinking herself smaller and trembling nonstop next to the door of the house Jinyoung currently lives in. He doesn’t mention that to Im Jaebeom, afraid he’s going to take it as a personal offence. “Hey, is this her? Is this your cat?”

Im Jaebeom breathes out a sigh of relief so loud Jinyoung has to bite his lower lip to avoid a smile.

“Why do you hate me so much?” He blurts out in lieu of a good night, or rather the sleep-deprived version of Park Jinyoung, this worst version of himself, blurts out.

Im Jaebeom goes stoic again, Nora safely tucked into his arms. They stand facing each other, motionless, for what feels like a very long time. Jinyoung feels a raindrop hit the spot under his left eye, slide down his face dramatically, like a tear, like they’re shooting a scene in a drama, like his life is a cosmic joke.

Im Jaebeom opens his mouth.

“Good night, Mr. Im,” Jinyoung says. He bows one last time, and rushes to hide behind the house, heart rattling in his chest.

Rain begins lashing vehemently around him.

 

 

 

 

He has seven students in his class, and Jinyoung loves the seven of them wholeheartedly.

One of his kids refuses to wear shoes, so when he isn’t in his school slippers he dashes everywhere barefoot. One of his kids doesn’t like talking, doesn’t raise her hand to answer questions, but confides to him funny messily written anecdotes at the end of every Friday class. One of his kids eats paper, and when admonished he only ever exclaims, _but it’s delicious! Nhom nhom!_ One of his kids brings his imaginary friend to school every day, and demands that Jinyoung ask him questions too, because _it hurts to be left out._ One of his kids loves books, and even if she doesn’t really read the words, she’s always looking at the pictures with painstakingly scrutiny. One of his kids wears his heart on his sleeve and cries easily. One of his kids reminds him of Jackson: can’t sit still for long, makes friends with everyone who looks at her for more than two seconds, loud-mouthed in the sense that she talks and talks and talks, like she has a lot to say but is scared of running out of words, out of time. She’s clingier than the others— _I’m so sorry_!, her mother exclaims in surprise when she finds her daughter clutching to Jinyoung one day. _Don’t worry_ , he says fondly, and the girl hugs him tighter, _It’s alright._   _It’s perfectly alright._

 

 

 

 

Loneliness, in Seoul, shapes itself in the form of a thousand undistinguishable convenience stores, and just as many similar dull buildings, and strangers who won’t make eye contact on the bus, on the subway, on the streets. It’s hollow-eyed celebrities staring at him from billboards, from advertising boards on subway stations and on bus stops. It’s longing to find his way home and scream HELLO OLD LOVE HOW I’VE MISSED YOU HOW I’VE MISSED YOU HOW I’VE MISSED YOU. It’s the sadness that threatens to choke him to death when Jackson whispers a little inconsolably as he cuddles him in the middle of the night, _Jinyoungie, loneliness is a choice. You don’t let anyone else get close to you. You lock yourself in a glass box and swallow the key so people can see you, but they can’t touch you._

Loneliness, here, is more deceitful. People greet him and smile at him when they pass by him. The market owner calls him kid and helps him pick only the best of the best of products. Mrs. Park barks a teasing laugh, _Ah, these old ladies! They all think you’re an eye candy. They say you’re so handsome you could very well be a famous actor in disguise._ Jieun invites him for a meal once a week, and sometimes Sungjin tags along. And Mark. But Jinyoung is awkward, doesn’t know how to tear down the walls around himself, and it’s like he is simultaneously trying too hard and not hard enough. Loneliness, here, is the monstrous absence that stands out the second he opens the door to the house and steps in.

“Absence of what?” Jackson asks languidly, rubbing an eye with a sweater paw. He brings the phone closer to his face so he can frown grumpily at the camera.

Jinyoung, despite his efforts, titters at the sight. “I was being dramatic. Don’t worry about it, Sseunah. Go to sleep. I hope you’re taking care of yourself, dipshit.”

 **JacksonWang852, 01:20:** hung out w namjoon earlier. he says he can sense the drop in braincells now that ure gone. i know he was trying to insult me but i also know it was his way of saying he misses u too

 **JacksonWang852, 01:21:** night jinyoungie. try not to get too caught up in that head of urs

The night is pleasant, clear skies speckled with stars. A crisp breeze blows gently against his skin and Jinyoung breathes in, legs criss crossed on the narrow porch. It carries the murmurs of trees, and the distinguishable scent of the annunciation of summer. Summer, in the city, smells like a peculiar mixture of sweat and soju and kimchi and miscellaneous street foods with a hint of the odour the questionable sewage system lets up. It can get irksome at times, when it’s outrageously hot, but Jinyoung is so used to it he hardly notices anymore. Here, summer smells— _green._ Underneath the fading stink of fertilizer season there’s the smell of growing grass and sprouting fruits and vegetables and flowers. It smells like forgiveness, somehow. This is what he imagines forgiveness would smell like. Forgiveness, and new beginnings.

Jinyoung jumps to his feet, stretches his limbs, goes for a walk. The habitual quietness meets him with affinity, envelopes him cozily; it is easier to handle the silence if he’s not confined in the house. He’s walked for an hour, maybe more, when he espies a figure sitting on the river bank, their broad, wide back turned to him. He considers what awaits him at the house: the palpable void, the solitude that comes with living alone after years of sharing a home with Jackson and the grueling space that it leaves for him to dwell on things he would prefer not to ruminate on. In an uncharacteristically bold move he plops down beside them.

“Hi,” he says, breathless all of a sudden.

“Hello,” Im Jaebeom replies placidly, and it’s like he’d been anticipating Jinyoung’s arrival. Which is only wishful thinking, of course. Jinyoung shouldn’t project. He shouldn’t assume. Im Jaebeom has his own reasons for staying out past three in the morning.

He watches Im Jaebeom take a long, languorous drag on his cigarette. The tip burns bright orange, and Jinyoung’s heart aches at the familiarity, reminiscent of a lifetime ago. “Alright?”

Im Jaebeom nods. “Yourself?”

“Alright.”

They don’t say anything else for a while, but then Im Jaebeom goes, _Thanks for helping me find Nora,_ and that’s how it starts. That’s how everything starts. Not slowly, but all at once: a succession of impromptu rendezvous, paradoxically, every night at 01:30; they sit side by side on the river bank, and on some nights Jaebeom doesn’t smoke, and on others, he does, shares a cigarette or two with Jinyoung like a newfound peace offering. And it’s not embarrassing, per sé. Not uncomfortable. They don’t exchange many words—that is, until Jinyoung questions him feebly, “Why do you hate me so much?”, and Im Jaebeom sighs an impressive long-suffering sigh, “I don’t _hate_ you.” It’s simple, after that. It’s simpler.

“Why do you smoke these?” Asks Jinyoung. “They’re gross.”

“I know,” says Jaebeom. “They help me calm down a bit when I’m too anxious.”

“Are you?” Asks Jinyoung. “Too anxious?”

“I think all of us are,” says Jaebeom. “Don’t you?”

The weather in May is sultry, damp, no monsoon rains yet, though rainy all the same. It’s been lashing down for hours on this particular night, and they’re resting against the wall on the porch, lights off, their surroundings engulfed by sheets of heavy rain. Jaebeom’s face is half hidden by shadows. The glimmer of lamp posts between the houses is fainter, dimmer, and alongside the raindrops bashing on the rooftop, it makes Jinyoung feel like he’s dreaming awake.

“Why are you wasting your degree?” he asks hotly.

“I’m not!” Jaebeom says, just as flustered. “I work at my parents’ farm, I help them the best I can, that’s as real as your own job, Jinyoung.”

“You _graduated._ You could be doing _something else_ with your life.”

“Because what I’m doing is not important? Unworthy? A job for poor, dumb losers?”

“That’s not—” Jinyoung shouts. “Shut up, that’s not what I’m fucking saying—”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Jaebeom mocks, and a harsh edge darkens his deep voice. He presses the heels of his hands to his eyes sockets. “You know, yeah, I kinda hated you at first. I thought you were another stupid asshole from Seoul who’d look down at us. And here you are, proving my point.”

“I’m from Jinhae, you piece of shit,” he sneers, but his chagrin is turning into melancholy. “You’ve this very wrong idea of me in your head and it’s funny. You’re one to talk about looking down on others, Jesus fucking Christ.” Jinyoung sobs out a choked laugh, and a startled little noise spills out of Jaebeom’s mouth. “I’m from an average family, an average town. I used to get into a lot of trouble. No one ever suspected me. I got high grades and teachers loved me. I’m not who you think I am.”

“You’re not.”

“Well, maybe I am. In part. I was a great student. Graduated top of my class. Sure, I wear boring clothes, and I live in Seoul so I’m automatically arrogant and stupid. Right? Fuck off. I might be a nerd who reads lots of books, but trust me, I’ve been up to no good my whole life. Got spanked by my mother a shitton of times for it, and she’d laugh at my teachers’ faces every time they told her, oh he must be the perfect son! She was the only one who saw right through my innocent act. She sees herself in me. Saw herself in me. We’ve always been the same.”

Jaebeom falls into a pensive mood. Jinyoung seeks his face in the dark, jittery in his own exasperation.

“Your tone changes—” Jaebeom speaks lowly, softly. He leans his head on the wall like he’s trying to get a better look at Jinyoung. “You talked about your mother and your tone changed completely. Do you miss her?”

“Yes,” he mumbles. “Yes, I miss her. We haven’t talked in months,” he confesses, also softer in his demeanor to match Jaebeom’s gentle hum of encouragement. “She writes me letters. I keep them safe inside my favourite books, but I don’t read them.”

Before Jinyoung realises it’s June, and it’s officially summer, and it’s become oppressively hot and humid and stifling. His grey t-shirt is perpetually attached to his back, sweat pooling at his nape; Jaebeom snickers hushdely at him, an unlit cigarette pressed between his lips. Jinyoung glares, but the intensity of it is lost beneath the dimness of these wakeful dreams, these sort of daydreams hallucinated late at night— _I’ve been dreaming of you,_ his mind-voice whispers abruptly, sluggish, tender, sugary, _there’s no other explanation I can find._ What he remembers of Jaebeom’s face arises from memories of a mild April night, and even back then his complexion had been overshadowed by dingy lights in a sketchy bar. What he remembers of Jaebeom’s face are these: unfathomable eyes, and unyielding frowny lips, and, for the briefest second, a pair of striking tiny moles above his left eye, like two of the brightest stars of a constellation making themselves known in the vastness of the sky. Jinyoung supposes the moles must have been a trick of the light. Still, here he is, his stubborn heart clawing its way up to his mouth earnestly, avid for a chance to peek at Jaebeom in the daylight and be assured he’s not a figment of Jinyoung’s imagination.

The sun won’t be up for hours. He can feel Jaebeom’s gaze on him. Steady. Expecting. _Gentle._

“My sisters followed the business path,” Jinyoung confides. It’s amusing how quiet their conversations tend to be when they’re not engaging in an argument. “I didn't. My parents were disappointed, to say the least. Well, my dad was. My mum was a teacher before my older sister was born, and I think she was happy I was following her steps, continuing her legacy. She’s never admitted to it, but I know. I know. She's always boasting to people about it, and defends the fuck out of me when they say I should be a doctor, or a lawyer, or on my way to become the CEO of a big company. My sister told me this once.”

“And you’re not curious to know what she writes you about?” Jaebeom asks, and suddenly his gentleness is more than Jinyoung can bear.

“You turn,” he grunts, snatching Jaebeom’s cigarette to light it and take an audacious drag.

Jaebeom repeats like a mantra, _Couldn’t stand Seoul. Couldn’t stand the people._ His words are bitter, and it’s like he’s set on burying each of them inbetween the little cracks on Jinyoung’s porch, shrouded away from himself and from the world. His words are bitter, but Jinyoung understands bitterness, understands resentment; Jaebeom lays himself bare and it verges on wistfulness.

“What would you like to have done?” Jinyoung asks in return, softly, again softly, so very, very soft, horror-struck with his own torn feelings towards living in that city. “If you hadn't got stuck with studying and working your hardest to get a job at a big company.”

Jaebeom smiles, a faint flashing of teeth as he bends to steal back the cigarette. “Maybe I’ll show you sometime.”

 

 

 

 

Jinyoung has a field trip with his kids so they can observe different habitats and vegetations. They love it, and he loves it, but the sky gets overcast around midday, when they’re settling down for an outdoor lunch. The second someone gasps, _Rain!!!,_ a massive drop lands heavily on his head and his kids scream in excitement; as rain pours down in torrents they dart in every direction, roaring with laughter, shrieking and bawling and howling. Jinyoung has to play his part of a stern teacher and chastise them for being wet and muddied, though his heart warms up at the sight.

Later, he tells Jaebeom about it, and Jaebeom pulls him off the porch to step into the rain. Jinyoung spins on the spot, spins, spins, spins, like he’s about to start dancing, his own laughter ringing in his ears. Jaebeom follows, and this is the first time Jinyoung hears him laugh, and his heart, his warmed up, sentimental heart, in rhythm with Jaebeom’s voice, with Jaebeom’s laughter, murmurs accusingly, _you’re a dream, you’re a dream, you’re a dream._

 

 

 

 

 _“_ Why is your face doing that?”

“What?” Jackson squawks, the tiny pucker on his brow turning into a full-on affronted frown. His bedroom is dim, half lit by the Kirby lamp on his nightstand and the street lights coming in through the window. “Are you calling me ugly?”

Jinyoung rolls his eyes so far back he’s amazed at himself. “Shut up, you idiot. What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

Jackson goes silent mid-whiny complain. That isn’t a good sign.

“What is it?” Jinyoung asks with urgency, brings his phone extremely close to his eyes level, Jackson-style, in a frantic attempt to see him better. “What’s wrong? Are you in pain?”

“My back hurts,” Jackson mumbles petulantly. “And my knee. I might’ve exaggerated at the gym today.”

“You stupid fuck!” Jinyoung moans, slamming his back against the wall, knees bent and feet flat on the porch. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Jacksonah. You shouldn’t do that. You have to be careful. You _know_ you have to be careful.”

“I’m careful! And I was doing fine! I—I must’ve pulled a muscle or something.”

“Yeah, right,” Jinyoung snorts. The trees and tall grass are motionless tonight, and the world seems to have come to a stop, seems to be standing very still. There isn’t any current of air. The mountains watch, quietly, secretively, protected by an eerily white sky. “Are you alone? Where’s Namjoon? Or that brat, Kunpimook, BamBam, whatever he calls himself these days.”

“I don’t need a _babysitter_ —” he protests. “I’m a grown ass man, I can take _care_ of—”

Jinyoung observes Jaebeom walk leisurely in the direction of the house, wearing oversized black basketball shorts and an equally oversized white t-shirt. He grins at Jinyoung once he’s in front of him, greeted by Jackson’s incomprehensible ear-splitting jabber.

“You cannot,” Jinyoung deadpans, staring at Jaebeom for a second before regarding Jackson with the most unimpressed expression he can muster. “Remember that time you had a 39° fever and I came home from class to find you collapsed on the bathroom floor? And that time you had a backache so painful you couldn’t move for hours? And that time _you_ gave _yourself_ food poisoning? And—”

“Alright, alright, fucking hell, you’ve made your point!” Jackson splutters. He pouts cutely, mimics kissing noises, but sobers up from his antics to say, “Jinyoungie, I love you. And I miss you every day. Don’t forget, okay?”

“Miss you too,” he mutters grumpily, aware of Jaebeom’s heed on the exchange, leaning his weight on Jinyoung easily to peep at the screen. “Please, Sseunah. Call Namjoon, alright? Or call Kunpimook. And call me if you need anything.”

“Alright. Promise. Night, Jinyoungie. Love you.”

The porch light is on for a change, an ancient bulb that casts a subdued yellowish light on them, and Jinyoung can assess Jaebeom’s features with more clarity. His face is slightly sweaty, black hair pushed back from his forehead to reveal strong cheekbones and harsh eyebrows and somber eyes that seem to soften the tiniest bit around the corners, and, even under this muted light, two small almost twinlike moles above his left eye are visible. _What the fuck. This isn’t fair,_ Jinyoung’s mind-voice says in a conversational tone.

“Was that your b—friend?” asks Jaebeom, too ridiculously nonchalant to sound natural. He fidgets absentmindedly, reaches out for pockets that aren’t there, probably in search for his cigarettes and his lighter.

“That was Jackson.” Jinyoung sighs. It’s hot. He feels _damp_ and cranky and worn-out. “He’s my best friend. And roommate.” He glances at Jaebeom. “That’s funny. We’ve talked about so many things, but we’ve never talked about our friends.”

Jaebeom falls into that pensive mood he tends to fall into when he’s pondering what to say. It’s something Jinyoung has noticed about him. _One_ of the things Jinyoung has noticed about him. “What is there to say? I’ve never had loads of friends. It was always just Sungjin and Jieun and me, though I had other people I used to hang out with, growing up in a place where everyone knows everyone and whatnot. But they were the only ones to welcome me back. Maybe because they’ve had the chance to get out, too. So they aren’t sour about that.”

Jinyoung waits.

“We’ve known each other our entire lives,” Jaebeom recites, a tinge of amusement in his drawl. “That’s a very long time to know someone, isn’t it? Your entire life.”

He doesn’t elaborate on it, doesn’t try to explain his reasoning behind the statement, but somehow, maybe not surprisingly, Jinyoung understands what he means. Knowing someone your entire life seems more of a burden than a blessing.

“I met Jackson on my first year in Uni,” Jinyoung says. “Sometimes it feels like I’ve known him longer. It’s scary, actually.” He hums. “Were you friends with any of the Chois?”

“No.” Jaebeom frowns. “You know how mean children can be. Choi Youngjae was always following us around, but he was younger so we ignored him, and he just stopped trying. His brother and sister were older and didn’t want anything to do with us. Why?”

“Their mother, Professor Choi, is the one who got me this job.”

“Funny, that.”

Jaebeom scratches his thighs over the fabric of his shorts like he has no idea what to do with his hands. Jinyoung chews at his lower lip for a moment, fingers itching to stop Jaebeom’s hands, press his own palm to Jaebeom’s knee and squeeze it in a gesture of solace.

“Do you miss anyone?” Jinyoung asks softly instead. “From Seoul? From that part of your life?”

“Of course I do.” Jaebeom smiles, and it’s not a happy smile. It’s grim and wistful and mournful. Jinyoung recognizes it—it’s the same smile he finds reflected back at him whenever he stares at himself in the mirror. “There isn’t much else to life, is there? Beyond all this missing and longing and yearning. This overwhelming waiting. Waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting for something to happen, waiting for something that won’t ever come.”

“No,” Jinyoung whispers a while later. “There isn’t.”

Jaebeom looks at him, _really_ looks at him, and the world starts moving again, heavy rain pouring down merciless around them. The tip of Jinyoung’s ears burn at the intensity of his gaze.

“I think it’s fair if you add me on KKT now. Don’t you?”

Jinyoung smiles. And this one, for once, is a mellow, happy smile.

 

 

 

 

“So.” Jieun giggles, red-cheeked and bright-eyed, tipsy on somaek. The remains of what had been a complete set of BBQ and its now empty side dishes, plus empty bottles and glasses, clutter the table. “What are your plans for summer break? The kids get out of school next week.”

“Visiting touristy places.” Mark hiccups. He props his elbow on the table, rests his chin on his right hand, and his volunteering answer is a sign that he is three drinks from completely plastered. His pronunciation is getting sloppy. Earlier he had informed he would be going to the restroom in English, and then in Mandarin, and then, finally, in Korean. “I need to, right? Otherwise people won’t believe I was in Korea.”

Jinyoung sips his lukewarm soda, gives Jieun a meaningful look. It’s rude of him, a lack of courtesy, to keep declining Sungjin’s offers of soju and beer, but they’re polite enough not to comment on it.

“Sure, darling.” She bursts out laughing, stretching an arm across the littered table to pat Mark’s cheek. “You do that. Just when it’s high season and there’s an abundance of people everywhere.”

“Jieunah,” Sungjin calls fondly. “Shall we do what we came here to do?”

Beside Jinyoung, Jaebeom tenses up. He’s been quiet all night, brushing Jinyoung aside like he’s less than an acquaintance, though their thighs are pressed flushed together under the table, and though they have played footsies throughout the whole dinner.

“We told Jaebeom already,” Jieun declares, nods her head solemnly. She gets sidetracked by the crucial task of finishing her somaek, and Sungjin wraps an arm around her shoulders, pulls her in to peck her on the temple. “Right. Right! We told Jaebeom already, but you’re our friends too, and soon everyone in town will hear about it. We’re engaged!”

The room overflows with a chorus of congratulations and cheers from Mark and Jinyoung. Jinyoung even downs one or two shots of soju to celebrate the news. By the time they’re outside Sungjin and Mark look dishevelled and ruffled, faces flushed, and Jieun smacks a kiss on each of their cheeks before holding hands with Sungjin and staggering away. Jaebeom loiters nearby and throws Jinyoung a furtive glance—Jinyoung is opening his mouth to say, _Wait for me, I’ll go with you,_ when Mark grasps on his fingers, tugging a little.

“Want me to walk you home?” He slurs in English.

Jinyoung, torn between scurrying after Jaebeom’s retreating silhouette and helping Mark arrive home safely, says, “No, c’mon, I’ll take you home, you American drunkard.”

 **prdsdef, 23:59:** mind hanging at mine tonight?

 **Park Jinyoung, 00:21:** i’ve never been to your house? which one is it?

 **prdsdef, 00:23:** two houses back from urs. the more

 **prdsdef, 00:23:** isolated (?) one

 **Park Jinyoung, 00:30:** ok. i’m leaving mark’s right now

 **prdsdef, 00:30:** cool

Jinyoung hurries to get to Jaebeom’s, his treacherous heart fluttering in its cage, pushing against his chest, rebellious, knocking morse code on its walls, _you’re an idiot, you’re an idiot, you’re a fucking idiot_. The second he discerns Jaebeom’s house and walks up to it, Jaebeom is tossing the door wide open like he had been pacing in front of a window as he waited anxiously for Jinyoung.

“Hi,” says Jinyoung, breathlessly. Blood rushes in his ears, the pulsation of his heart echoing _idiot, idiot, idiot._

“Hello,” says Jaebeom, just as breathless. He’s changed from his white shirt and dark jeans to his pair of oversized basketball shorts and a predictably extra large black t-shirt. Jinyoung wishes he could stop noticing more and more about Jaebeom. He hadn’t paid any mind to anyone else’s clothes.

His living room consists of a navy blue yo laid out on the floor overlayed with a disarray of mismatched cushions and a sleeping Nora, a tatty coffee table that has definitely seen better days, and an impressively crammed bookcase. Jinyoung is drawn to it like a moth to a flame, and Jaebeom regards him curiously from the kitchen doorstep.

“You have quite the collection. Literature from all around the world—oh,” he exhales softly. He touches the paperback copy of _The Catcher in the Rye,_ holds it in his hands to skim the pages. _“You’re going to have to find out where you want to go. And then you’ve got to start going there. But immediately. You can’t afford to lose a minute._ That haunted me for months. Still does, kinda.”

A light chuckle escapes Jaebeom. “You know, the only thing I remember from this book are the last sentences. _Don’t ever tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody.”_ He tilts his head thoughtfully. His eyes bore into Jinyoung. “I remember it because I’ve the bad habit of always reading the last page first. Those sentences hit home hard.”

“They do hit home hard,” Jinyoung muses. His tone still sounds frightening soft to his own ears as he jokes, “Bad news, pal, we’re way past that now. So? Will you miss me?”

“Yeah, yeah, miss you already,” Jaebeom dismisses, socked feet padding into the kitchen. He clatters in there for a few minutes and reappears with two shot glasses and two bottles of soju; one, original-flavoured, the other, peach-flavoured. “I’ll tell you a secret: I’ve a bad case of sweet tooth, that’s why I bought a fucking peach-flavoured soju. I was saving it for a special occasion, but we have a lot to celebrate, don’t we?”

He peeks at the neat row of Murakami books on the top shelf, turning to realise Jaebeom has settled on the floor by the coffee table. “You don’t look _that_ excited about the engagement.”

“You’re not making any sense.”

Jinyoung flumps on the hardwood on the opposite side of the coffee table. He does that blank move from when he wants to be taken seriously, clearing his face of emotions and staring at Jaebeom unwaveringly. It drives Jackson mad, that stark blankness, the vacancy Jinyoung displays, but Jaebeom is a good match; he goes stoic, a glazed look in his eyes, frozen at a standstill.

“Tell me something, Jaebeom.” It must have been the two shots of soju. It’s the only explanation to _why_ his voice is so sticky, so soft, the only explanation to why 형 spills so unselfconsciously from his lips. “Tell me something true. I’ll keep your sweet tooth secret safe. Just be real with me. No pretenses.”

Jaebeom blinks astonishedly at him, which means he’s lost their power-assertion staring contest. They’ve upheld a certain level of respectfulness until now, caught in this weird limbo of unresolved formality vs. informality. He surveys Jinyoung cautiously, like he’s figuring out in his head if Jinyoung has crossed a line he wasn’t supposed to, at least not yet, a faint wrinkle between his eyebrows. In the end, he cracks a relenting smile.

“Let’s play a game,” he suggests. “I ask you a question, you take a shot and answer me. You ask me a question, I take a shot and answer you.”

“And I’m not allowed to refuse to answer?”

“You want me to tell you something true. You have to tell me something true in return. That’s the bargain.”

“I don’t really drink,” Jinyoung stalls, but he’s smiling too, reaching to uncap the bottle of peach-flavoured soju and pour out the glasses.

“That can be my first question.” Jaebeom hums. “Why not?”

Jinyoung shoots up his share. The sugary taste lingers on his tongue, and the alcohol burns his throat, his stomach. “Growing up...My dad used to drink a lot with his buddies from work. Sometimes he'd get home and yell at us. He was never _physically_ violent, never hit us, nothing like that. But he would say hurtful things, you know, very crude insults. Most of the time he didn't even mean them, I believe. He was too out of it to realise what was coming out of his mouth. He was just really stressed. My mother stopped working when my older sister was born, so he was the only one earning money, supporting the household. He had a good job, but it was absurdly stressful anyway, I suppose. So yeah, I don't really drink. I'll have a beer or a glass of wine from time to time, but I never _drink_ to _get drunk_. I’m scared I'll say hurtful things, too, if I let myself reach that point. I’m scared I’ll say hurtful things I can never take back.”

Jaebeom taps his fingers on the table, his left ones, because he’s left-handed and that’s one more detail Jinyoung has noticed about him. _One more,_ like how his hands and fingers look smaller than Jinyoung’s own, and contrastingly chubby. And there it is again, that unbearable gentleness rolling off him in waves as his gaze anchors and pins Jinyoung down on his spot. “Your turn.”

“Are you in love with Lee Jieun?” he asks.

Jaebeom gulps his shot in one go, but then almost coughs out his lungs—he’s letting out a stupendous belly laugh, slapping his own chest to suppress the coughing. “No, Jinyoung, I’m not in love with Lee Jieun.” Jinyoung is speechless, shocked at Jaebeom’s outburst. His eyes have become half-moons, face scrunched up half in pain, half in gaiety. “I’ve never been in love with Lee Jieun. No, not with her.”

Nora, arisen by the commotion, meows irritably at them. She wriggles her way towards Jaebeom to complain at him, _meowr,_ and Jaebeom scratches lovingly behind her ear to appease her; she tucks herself between his criss-crossed legs, purring loudly, contentedly.

“Oh,” Jinyoung exclaims dumbly. “ _Oh._ Oh no. I’m sorry.”

Jaebeom’s trademark sharp features are strikingly soft as he peers down at Nora, tender around the edges. Jinyoung searches his face, takes his time on the moles above his left eye, discovers speckles of tiny beauty marks all over patches of skin he hadn’t noticed before, some lighter than others—here he is, noticing, noticing, noticing, learning Jaebeom’s shapes and traits and peculiarities, a phantom feeling of familiarity blooming in his chest, a hint of something that has occurred very nearly like this a long time ago, the ghost of a washed-out memory. He recognizes the pattern. Be as it may, he isn’t a hormonal teenager this time, and Jaebeom isn’t Wonpil. It might just be reckless infatuation; they have been spending their nights together, sharing pieces of themselves and glimpses of their crooked sides and the cracks in their souls, and no matter how many times Jinyoung needs to remind himself that this is temporary, it seems so _intimate_. It _feels_ so intimate.

When Jaebeom looks back up, his eyes twinkle with mirth. _Oh,_ Jinyoung thinks, dumbly, dumbly, dumbly. Tough Jaebeom, harsh Jaebeom, aloof Jaebeom: it’s all a sly deception. He should had noticed _that_ a lot sooner. He blames the fact that their conversations have happened mostly in the dark. “What are you sorry for, _Jinyoungah_? We’ve all had our hearts broken before.”

“Fair enough,” Jinyoung says. Jaebeom’s still smiling, subtler now, a little unfocused, a little unguarded. “I was in love with my best friend once.”

“Jackson?”

“God, no.” Jinyoung grimaces. “Does that count as your second question?” He grasps the bottle, but Jaebeom stops him with a gentle, _gentle_ stroke to the back of his hand, shakes his head.

“You don’t have to drink. And it counts as my second question, if you want it to,” he murmurs, withdrawing his hand awkwardly.

Jinyoung narrows his eyes defiantly. “No, it wasn’t Jackson. I was 14 and we’d been friends for years. Actually, I didn’t even realise what I felt for him _for years._  Nothing ever happened, he had to move to North America with his family. I was telling Jackson about him and he went, _Oh my god, Jinyoung, it sounds like you wanted to suck his face and be his_ boyfriend _boyfriend,_   _not his friend who is a boy._ ” Then he takes a generous swig straight from the bottle. “People say you can’t possibly know what love is at that age, but I think they just forget what it’s like _being_ that age. If I say it was love, why should someone else try to convince me it wasn’t? Well, not that I’ve told people about it. Only Jackson. And now you.”

Jaebeom is careful when he holds Nora and places her on his yo; he is careful when he helps Jinyoung to his feet; he is careful when he picks a book from the bookcase, and gets his cigarettes and his lighter, and leads Jinyoung to the porch, outdoor light on. They sit side by side, gliding close, close, closer, to the point that there’s essentially no space left between them. It’s raining, and the hissing of raindrops against the windows, against the roof, against the house had gone unnoticed. Jinyoung catalogs the smells of this night in early July; sweet and earthy from wet soil, smoke from Jaebeom’s cigarette, sweat from the summer heat insistent embrace on their skins.

His heart aches. Jinyoung is used to this kind of ache. It’s an ache that comes from having a tenacious heart— _mulish,_ his mother would quip—, as stubborn as a child spread out on the dirty floor of a crowded supermarket, kicking their legs and crying and screaming their lungs out demanding to get what they want _right now._ That kind of ache, a _want!!!!!_ ache, even when his heart is not sure what _exactly_ it is calling for. Stubborn little thing. Spoiled little thing.

 _“I liked the deep, sad summer nights.”_ Jaebeom suspires melodramatically, passing Jinyoung the cigarette. _“Dance Dance Dance._ I saw you looking at the Murakami books.” He caresses the cover of the paperback in his hands. “Why don’t you read your mother’s letters?”

Jinyoung puffs at the cigarette and shrugs.

“Okay. Will you read me a story?” Jaebeom asks.

“What, like a bedtime story?” He chuckles, and Jaebeom touches his nape tentatively, then squeezes the back of his neck half-heartedly, a good-natured threat of rebuke. _Brat,_ the gesture says. “Gimme the book.”

“Choose a good one.”

“ _This is my seventeenth straight day without sleep,_ ” Jinyoung starts. Jaebeom laughs at his short story choice, a noiseless, open-mouthed laugh, and that sets Jinyoung off for some reason. He guffaws, hiding his own mouth behind a hand, has to repeat the first sentence four times, until the sudden laughter fits die down, whirls of smoke around them. Jaebeom leans on him unconsciously to listen. _I liked the deep, sad summer nights,_ echoes in his head. _“This is my seventeenth straight day without sleep. I’m not talking about insomnia. I know what insomnia is.”_

 

 

 

 

Mark hides a grin behind his half full pint glass of beer after toasting their two-week break, eyes sparkling with joy. His light brown hair is concealed under a backwards snapback, and that amazes Jinyoung solely for the fact that the AC had broken down that morning, and it’s _boiling_ inside the fried chicken place. “Jinyoungie,” he sing-songs.

Jinyoung munches on a piece of extra spicy deep-fried chicken, sweltering in his plain white t-shirt and black cargo shorts. “Yes?”

“I bought a ticket for a weekend of freedom in Seoul,” he says. “Why don’t you come with me? I’ll explore whatever there is to explore around next during the week, maybe the green tea fields, and but it’d be nice having you to show me around the city, to be honest.”

It’s a knee-jerk decision if he’s ever heard one when he finds himself replying, “Oh, sure. I’ll check to see if I can get a ticket from the same bus company, same time. I’d be happy to show you around Seoul. I bet Jackson will have a list of what to do and what to see ready the second we get there. You should stay with us, don’t waste your money booking a hotel room.”

Jaebeom’s overall weary aura is even more evident tonight, as summer is the busiest time of year, dripping hair flopped over his forehead, shoulders hunched. Jinyoung watches him from where he’s been standing next to his shelves examining his books—while Jaebeom’s books are well-kept and free of underlined fragments, Jinyoung’s books are battered and dog-eared and yellow-stained, spines wrinkled and marked like scars on a body, so well-loved he wishes he could have brought them all with him, not only three or four. Jaebeom’s book are well-loved in his own tidy, orderly way, too, Jinyoung supposes, and he’s about to tease him, but he feels Nora headbutt his ankle, and what leaves his mouth instead is:

“Hey, would you like to come to Seoul with me for the weekend?”

Jaebeom reclines on the improvised couch that is the navy blue yo and its cushions to blink owlishly behind his oval, thin-framed glasses at Jinyoung. A few droplets of water from his shower slide down his neck, down into his atrocious oversized orange shirt, and Jinyoung bustles to pick Nora up and give her a cuddle. “What.”

“I.” Jinyoung clears his throat. Nora tucks her head beneath his chin, purring, pets her own head against his neck. It’s ticklish, and Jinyoung squirms. Jaebeom’s lips quiver. “Mark and I are going to Seoul on Thursday.”

“...Okay?” His amusement is palpable, though he’s fighting a smile, eyes midway to half-moons. The mauve skin under his eyes has turned into a dark shade of purple. Jinyoung wants to press his fingertips to the bruise-coloured skin and compel it to disappear, like magic, like that would instantly make Jaebeom less tired.

“I just thought,” he flounders. “I just thought. I don’t know. Forget it.”

“Tell me something true, Jinyoungah,” Jaebeom says softly. The affectionate way he addresses Jinyoung, his smooth voice heavy with fatigue still so gentle—Jinyoung goes warm inside, a little like he’s melting, giddy and light-headed. His cheeks and ears burn, but he lays the blame on the torrid air coming in through the window screen. “Be real with me.”

“Don’t you use my words on me,” Jinyoung complains, half whining, half acting cute, a faint curving on the corner of his lips.

“Fair enough.” This time Jaebeom’s smile makes a full appearance, lights his whole face up. Relating _this_ Jaebeom to terse, laconic, grim Im Jaebeom is _odd._ “You’re gonna go back to the city for a weekend.”

“Yes.”

“And you want me to go with you.”

“Yes.”

“Why? Mark will be there. And Jackson.”

“I just thought I’d be fun.”

“I appreciate the invitation. But I can’t. There’s a lot to be done here, at the farm.”

They don’t talk much. Jaebeom is partially asleep, absent-minded, broody. He lies on his yo as Nora claims her spot on his chest, and Jinyoung joins them instinctively, body in Jaebeom’s personal space. Summery breeze blows in through the window, through the holes of the screen. The room smells like the instant ramen they have abandoned on the coffee table and Jaebeom’s body wash. Jaebeom is partially asleep, absent-minded, broody, and Jinyoung reads him poems he has open on safari since last week. _When you go away, sick of seeing me, I shall let you go gently, no words._


	2. intermission

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sick again and sleepdeprived 
> 
> and this is very  
>  
> 
> short
> 
> my brain is Missing!

_Missing Jackson is like missing a splinter under your fingernail,_ he tells Mark. _Missing Jackson is like missing a toothache._ Missing Jackson is like missing a chunk of his own soul, he doesn’t say.

Jackson jumps on and latches onto him like Jinyoung has been away for years, but if there’s at least one single consolation about being back in Seoul is that people won’t bother looking twice at anything uneventful, so no one pays attention to the obnoxious exhibition of affection in the middle of the insanely congested Central Terminal. Jinyoung winces, feigns disgust—and hugs Jackson just as tight, comforted, not sure if he’s uneasy by his homecoming of sorts, or if he’s still immaturely sore about Jaebeom’s rejection. His bones hurt, and it feels like his heart is wearing itself backwards, like he’s woken up inside-out. Jackson kisses his cheeks shamelessly until he earns an embarrassed laugh and a shove from Jinyoung.

Mark is appraising Jackson apprehensively when he turns his dark, round eyes to him. He announces, very solemn, “Hello. I’m Jackson Wang.”

“I’m Mark.”

“Oh, believe me, I’ve heard a lot about you. And you’ve heard a lot about me, right? Good things only.”

“Shut up.” Jinyoung rolls his eyes, clutches his duffel bag to his chest. “Let’s get out of here. It’s hot and crowded.”

“You must be hungry, right? Right? Let’s take the subway so Mark can have a true Seoul experience on his first day,” Jackson babbles on. He’s wearing a black tank top, revealing his collarbones, his broad, well-defined shoulders and toned arms. Jinyoung wants to poke fun at him; people person Jackson, social butterfly Jackson: always thirsty for compliments. He’s trying to impress Mark, that much is obvious.

“What do you know about true Seoul experiences? You’re from Hong Kong,” Jinyoung teases.

“Hey, I’m practically Korean by now!”

“You couldn’t eat spicy food if someone threatened to bash your head with a brick.”

It leaves a bitter taste in his mouth at first, the way everything still feels the same. The packed subway, the smells of kimchi and soju and day-old muck sweat that seem to cling to the cars, and the crowds and hum of traffic and city noises that greet them the second they step out of the station exit. The afternoon is smothering hot and humid. Forecast predicts rain for the weekend, but, for now, the sky is cerulean blue with no clouds in sight. Jackson draws Mark into a conversation Jinyoung can’t understand, because he’s throwing Mandarin and English slangs in it to appease Mark. They follow Jackson around, which means they have a hectic, busy day, though Jinyoung barely registers. He’s running on automatic, head fuzzy. And almost like fast forwarding a movie, he finds himself sitting between Jackson and Mark at Cheonggyecheon stream, dessert pancake in hand, sun low in the pinkish evening sky.

The moment they stumble through the front door of their apartment is the moment Jinyoung is thwacked by the overwhelming sensation of change, of not fitting in this part of his own life. He struggles to get rid of the feeling, focusing on their home, his home, a frozen memory trapped in a fading picture; tiny living room, cramped kitchen, closed bathroom door, open bedrooms doors. He has missed this, _hasn’t he?_ There is no reason for his sudden thinking of a creaky, tired house hidden by mountains in a godforsaken town miles away.

“Jinyoungie,” Jackson calls softly after Mark has locked himself in that excuse of a bathroom, eager for a shower. His gaze is knowing and a little sad, a habit he has adopted when it’s only the two of them and he’s looking at Jinyoung. It’s not pity—Jinyoung doesn’t allow anyone to pity him, not even Jackson—but a mix of love and understanding and sorrow and urgency. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know,” he says truthfully. Their apartment is so small he can hear the shower running, he can hear the dull hum of the fridge in the next room. Through the window he sees countless of other windows flooded with light, a maze of buildings and shimmering city lights and neon signs. “I’m tired, I guess.”

“I’ve missed you. I’m glad you’re here. I’m glad you look healthy, well, aside from your usual dark circles.” Jackson smiles tentatively, and pulls him into a warm embrace. It hits him then; Jinyoung _is_ touch-starved, he _has_ missed this kind of closeness. He might not had been exactly happy in Seoul, but he is happy to be back for the weekend. Jackson is his best friend, his family, his home.

“I’ve missed you too,” he concedes. Jackson gasps. They’re sweaty, and the outside smells stick to their skins, yet Jinyoung buries his face deeper in Jackson’s neck, tightens his grip around Jackson’s shoulders. “I’ll deny if you tell anyone I said that.”

“Of course.” Jackson scoffs.

Jinyoung is second in line to shower, Jackson is third. They’re supposed to dress nicely and go clubbing, according to Jackson’s MUST LIST. Mark agrees in that easy-going manner of his, and comes out of Jinyoung’s bedroom in tight ripped jeans and a loose red and white striped t-shirt and with his hair styled up. He’s undeniably beautiful, and Jinyoung wishes there was a spark there, on his part, but he’s drained, a headache building up, the layer of second skin that translates into awkwardness and extreme fatigue digging its claws into his body.

“Hey, Jinyoungie, are you okay?” Jinyoung opens his eyes to find Mark’s face above his own, brow knitted, staring at him worriedly. Jinyoung groans.

“Sorry. I needed a minute.” He pushes his weight up on the couch and straightens up.

Mark’s frown intensifies. “You look really tired. You should stay home and rest.”

“What? Are you sure? I thought—”

“Jackson’s alright.” Mark chuckles, and it sounds genuine. “Don’t worry. I bet we can have some fun without you.”

Jinyoung stands in his bedroom, bones achy, heart achy, and surveys the place. Mark’s backpack is on his bed, and his pile of books-shaped nightstand is intact, and his other stacks of books are pulled against a wall, nothing dusty, like Jackson has been taking care of his things in a way he doesn’t take care of the things in his own bedroom. He’s an alien in this home, he thinks, an impersonator of the Park Jinyoung who had once inhabited this oddly tidy room. He tries not the disturb the air around him, stiff and still, slightly on edge, a rubber band bound to snap eventually.

He thinks about the time he and Jackson had been students, the times Jackson had left the TV on in the middle of the night to help them stay awake to study, the time they had suffered from finals insanity and tried baking sweet rice cake and had set off the smoke alarm instead at three in the morning. A lifetime ago— _you’re being dramatic again, the smoke detector incident was two years ago._

He grabs his phone and earbuds, and goes sit on the _tiny_ balcony attached to the _tiny_ laundry room, so tiny it doesn’t _seem_ safe to stand on, let alone sit on, but it’s been Jinyoung’s hiding place for years. They have never even had a foldable clothesline, ever. From here he sees the same things he sees through the apartment windows; a maze of buildings and lights and neon signs, the outlines of a vast, towering city straight into the horizon. A shout of laughter rings all the way to the second floor, a screech of a tyre, a bottle breaking. _I liked the deep, sad summer nights._ Summer sunsets and summer nights have always been Jinyoung’s most beloved aspects of summer, have always sat in his bones like nostalgia, like wistful sadness. “No one is sad in the summertime, Youngie,” his mother used to say by the stove, preparing samgyetang for dinner while Jinyoung watched her from the table. “No one is sad in the summertime,” she used to say, tone grave with melancholy, identical twin to the melancholy that’s embedded, rooted into Jinyoung. A desire for Jaebeom to be here, with his cigarettes and his absurd open-mouthed laugh, decks him, punches him so violently he wants to cry, and he doesn’t know why he wants to cry, not really; is it the city? Summer? The echo of his mother’s words? _Will you miss me? Yeah, yeah, miss you already._

 **Park Jinyoung, 23:57:** hey

Delete.

 **Park Jinyoung, 00:08:** are you

Delete.

 **Park Jinyoung, 00:24:** what’s your favourite song right now? and i mean right now right now don’t think tell me the first song that comes to your mind

 **prdsdef** , **00:31:** texting in the club?

 **prdsdef, 00:31:** idk. dont do this to me

 **prdsdef, 00:32:** its a hard question.

 **Park Jinyoung, 00:33:** why would you assume i would go clubbing anyway?

 **Park Jinyoung, 00:33:** headache. home alone. mark and jackson went out, they can have fun for me

 **Park Jinyoung, 00:40:** so. what song should i listen to right now?

 **prdsdef, 00:40:** did u take smthng for the headache?

 **prdsdef, 00:41:** whats the mood

 **Park Jinyoung, 00:42:** existential dread

 **prdsdef, 00:42:** nice. ill send u sungjins friends playlist

 **prdsdef, 00:44:** [link]

 **Park Jinyoung, 00:44:** thanks

 **Park Jinyoung, 01:01:** what are you up to

 **prdsdef, 01:06:** reading

 **prdsdef, 01:06:** this quote u read stuck on my mind so i decided to reread the book

 **prdsdef, 01:07:** youre going to have to find out where you want to go and then youve got to start going there

 **Park Jinyoung, 01:09:** not in a merry mood yourself, i see

 **prdsdef, 01:17:** guess not

 **prdsdef, 01:27:** do u want me to call u and read for u?

 **Park Jinyoung, 01:28:** doing all the work tonight? versatile. i like that in a man

Delete.

“Hi,” Jinyoung whispers. Jaebeom has chosen not to call on FaceTime, so Jinyoung pads across the apartment to cocoon himself in a blanket burrito in Jackson’s bed and presses the phone against his ear.

“Hi,” Jaebeom whispers back. “Why are we whispering? I thought you were alone.”

Jinyoung titters. “I am. Sorry for disturbing your reading. You didn’t have to call.”

“I know I didn’t. This is our meeting hour, or have you forgotten already?”

“Never. What part are you in?”

 _“Did you ever get fed up? I said. I mean did you ever get scared that everything was going to go lousy unless you did something?”_ Jaebeom’s voice is a gentle murmur. The bedroom window is open a bit, fan on; it’s calm here, on his little corner of the world, slow-moving, drowsy. Jaebeom reads for a long time. Jinyoung nuzzles Jackson’s pillow, sleepy, pictures Jaebeom on his back on his yo, book in one hand, phone locked in place between ear and shoulder as he reads. He almost doesn’t catch Jaebeom’s asking, “Jinyoung? You still there?”

“Yeah. I’m here.”

“Do you ever get scared? Even now? Even when you know what you’re doing?”

“Do I,” he says quietly. Jaebeom huffs a hushed laugh. “I’m not sure I know what I’m doing. I’m just...Moving forwards. Blindly.”

“But you love your job,” Jaebeom insists plaintively. “Don’t you?”

“Loving my job doesn’t mean—” He sighs. Hears the distant flicker of a lighter. Longs for it, sharing a cigarette with Jaebeom, Jaebeom leaning on him, on his porch. “My job is not my whole life, it’s only a part of it. It’s like, I know who I am at work and what I have to do, but then what?”

Jaebeom keeps silent for a couple of minutes. “Sometimes I feel like I’m standing at a crossroads. Most of the time I feel like I’m standing at a crossroads. Should I go this way or that? Which one will bring me less regrets later on? Why do _I_ get to decide, and _why_ now?”

“You said life is nothing but missing and yearning and waiting for things to happen.”

“Have you always wanted to be a teacher?”

“No. Have you always wanted to be a farmer?”

“Fuck off,” Jaebeom says comfortably.

Jinyoung buries his face in Jackson’s pillow and listens to Jaebeom breathing on the other side of the line. Brain foggy, he imagines reaching his fingers through the line to touch Jaebeom’s cheekbone, rub a thumb down to his jaw, to his chin, affectionately, tenderly. To make sure he’s real, even now, even this far. Not a dream.

“I can’t turn back time,” Jaebeom mutters. “I can’t turn back, period. And I don’t know if I’d want to. But I’m scared. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life trying to figure out which way is the right one to go. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life _just_ moving forwards. Blindly. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life carrying around my regrets. It’s a very heavy thing to carry around by myself. And I’m really fucking tired.”

“I know,” Jinyoung breathes out. “I’m really fucking tired, too.”

 

 

 

 

Jackson’s tour consists of very touristy activities like consuming every sample of street food available, and that includes enduring the horde of locals and tourists at Gwangjang Market; an essential quick peek at Bukchon Hanok Village; exploring the Yeouido neighbourhood so Mark can send his parents a picture in front of the famous I SEOUL U and take in the bustling view that is the Han River and its patches of grass and parks in the summer. Jinyoung would rather Mark had the chance to see the Banpodaegyo bridge at night, after sunset, but this is also entertaining. His feet are swollen and sore from walking all day, and he’s relieved when Jackson declares that it’s time for dinner—he leads them to an authentic Chinese restaurant on a narrow, dead-end street. It has no sign stating that it _is_ a Chinese restaurant, and Jackson smiles excitedly at them, like he’s letting them in on a private joke, or a secret.

“I thought it was going to be a Seoul experience?” Jinyoung chaffs in good-nature as they step inside.

“Seoul is a cosmopolitan city, Jinyoungie, get on with the times.”

“You bicker like a married couple,” Mark says, unfazed. A woman approaches their table to serve them their free water and free tea. Jackson holds a polite conversation with her in Cantonese, displays his most charming smile. Mark regards him thoughtfully once she disappears. “You were talking shit about us, weren’t you?”

Jackson chokes on his tea dramatically. “Of course _not!_ And how did you _know?_ ”

Jinyoung doesn’t have any excuses to skip clubbing tonight. He dresses plainly, opts for a white t-shirt tucked into faded blue jeans and sneakers. Jackson has dragged him to clubs multiple times, and Jinyoung is surprisingly thrilled at what the night promises. He loves dancing. He misses dancing. It’s exhilarating looking forwards to something for a change.

The club is dingy and cheap and the songs are outdated and he’s been here before. He orders a beer, though drinking is not his goal, his purpose; the dance floor is. The dim dance floor is overflowing with bodies, and that’s what Jinyoung longs to be for now, a faceless stranger, one more body swaying to the rhythm of the beat. It’s muscle-memory, this shifting, this motion, this roll of hips, Jackson’s chest to his back, Mark’s chest to his chest.

At some point he’s dancing alone, and he’s lost track of time. For a brief moment his mind wanders to conjure up a picture of hands smaller than his own, fingers a little chubby, touching his waist, hesitant at first, and then squeezing it with intent. Hands smaller than his own, fingers a little chubby: one stroking his chest, holding him in place, the other sliding down the side of his body to rub at his hip, at his thigh. A broad chest with broad shoulders solid against his own back, hips moving at the same pace, rolling in synchrony. His heart thrashes wildly, screams _want!!!,_ and Jinyoung decides to go searching for Jackson, embarrassed. He can’t even blame the alcohol in his bloodstream, he’s had one beer, and there’s no doubt to whom those hands belong.

 **Park Jinyoung, 03:00:** where the fuck are you??

 **Park Jinyoung, 03:07:** jackson.

 **Park Jinyoung, 03:23:** i’m going home, meet me outside in ten if you wanna share a ₩taxi₩

He pushes the rusty door and stumbles outside. Dense, fat raindrops strike the pavement mercilessly. Jinyoung gets soaking wet, clothes sodden, and remembers the first time he’d heard Jaebeom’s laughter as he had chased Jinyoung, spinning and spinning and spinning in the rain.

They split the outrageous taxi fare home, and Jackson’s lips don’t leave Mark’s neck throughout the entire ride, low whispers growing into quiet moans. Jinyoung apologises to the driver over and over, _they’re drunk, they’re being stupid, they’re foreigners, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry—_ and that turns his mouth sour. He’s protective of Jackson, mindful of his devil-may-care nature, and here he is, calling his best friend stupid to placate a middle-aged driver like they are a bad case of outlaw freaks, acting dishonourably by behaving precisely how a man and a woman their age would behave in this situation.

Jinyoung only relaxes when they’re safe and sheltered in their apartment, toeing off his shoes in their foyer and watching Mark and Jackson reel in the direction of Jackson’s bedroom. The door closes with a thud, followed by the unmistakable noise of a crash and a series of profanities.

 **Park Jinyoung, 04:44:** awake?

 **Park Jinyoung, 04:45:** do you wanna know a secret

 **prdsdef, 04:45:** oh im intrigued shoot

 **Park Jinyoung, 04:47:** mark and jackson are gonna fuck and i really wish i was somewhere else

 **Park Jinyoung, 05:00:** wow thanks for leaving me all by my lonesome in such a time of need

 **prdsdef, 05:00:** im sorry i was trying to stop laughing

 **Park Jinyoung, 05:01:** asshole :)

 **prdsdef, 05:00:** what about u tho

 **prdsdef, 05:02:** not getting any?

 **prdsdef, 05:05:** i mean it’s not like u can do that here. 1.no ppl 2.most secrets dont stay hidden for long

 **Park Jinyoung, 05:13:** i’d rather have a threesome with mark and jackson than bring someone home from a club. i’m too old and tired for that.

 **prdsdef, 05:14:** hey if ure old then what am i?

 **Park Jinyoung, 05:20:** going to bed now! good night!

 

 

 

 

Jinyoung wakes up to the clunking of torrential rain against his bedroom window. It’s 08:45 in the morning, and the silence that sneaks onto him underneath the steady clash of raindrops against glass doesn’t unnerve him as much.  Jackson is in his bedroom, and Jinyoung is home, he’s home. This feeling creeping slowly into his marrow, spreading slowly through his limbs is just exhaustion, just sleep-induced torpor, he muses. Still, he pokes at it like he would a physical wound, probing, examining _—_ it aches like phantom pain, ghostly, like he’s missing a bone or an organ or a piece of himself he hadn't been aware of the existence but that now it’s no longer there. _That_ unnerves him, so he crawls out of bed and shuffles barefoot into the kitchen, seeking for a distraction.

He’s reading a short story collection over a cup of instant coffee when Jackson walks in.

“You disgust me,” he says. “Instant coffee is bad for you.”

“Is it?” Jinyoung hums, without averting his eyes from his book. “Alcohol is bad for you. Get over it, we’re all gonna die one day.”

Jackson suggests a visit to the Lotte World Tower, and then suggests jjimjilbang for an _immersion in the culture,_ he exclaims as he drags a perplexed Mark out the apartment door, but Jinyoung takes pity on him and they end up at a puppy café. The city offers an extensive list of indoor activities for rainy days, and that’s something Jinyoung has always acknowledged as a nice quality. He smiles at the puppy on his lap and sends a picture of her to Jaebeom.

Mark is too tactful to complain _—_ he’s nursing a two-day hangover and appears to be dead on his feet, and the later the afternoon gets, and rain continues to fall, the crankier he looks, as sulky as an overtired child. Jinyoung recognizes the signs. He works with kids, after all. He pretends to have a splitting headache and Jackson fusses, demanding they go back home.

“I miss you, don’t go back to that boring place,” Jackson whispers conspiratorially, sandwiched between Jinyoung and Mark on the couch, Mark napping with his head on his shoulder. A variety show plays on mute on TV. The pizza delivery guy should be here at any minute. “It’s _boring_ and _I’m_ not there.”

Jinyoung thinks of abundant green fields, and vigilant mountains, and his kids, and a pair of moles above a left eye, and talking for nights on end. “Boring, yeah. So boring. You wouldn’t believe it.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was the first scene i wrote after months of listening to verse 2 on repeat and it's the whole premise of the fic and it's very short i know i know but since i'm having a hard time writing anything and have no idea when i'm gonna update i thought i would leave it here for a little while
> 
> just for a little while. just because
> 
> (this isn't a real chapter)

And it’s not that Jinyoung is delusional. He _is,_ though, a romantic at heart. Jackson swears he reads too many novels and that all those poetry books are no good for his sensitive, idealistic soul. Jackson is just aiming to figuratively get underneath his skin as best as he can and Jinyoung is aware of it. If there’s one thing Jackson is well-versed in is love; he loves loudly, he loves physically, he loves wholeheartedly, always throwing himself head first into things, always throwing himself at someone and going, _I like you so much!_ His attention span might be a hassle, as he bounces from person to person without looking back twice ( _O_ _nce is more than enough, Jinyoungie. We keep moving ahead, that’s what we’re here for)_ , but it doesn’t mean his love is any less genuine. And not only his people person kind of love, either.

Before his accident, and moving to South Korea, and tangling himself in and spreading himself around every root and corner and surface of Jinyoung’s existence, Jackson had been a fencer, an exceptional one, having participated in a Youth Olympics and other championships. He’d been _great._ Extraordinary. And he’d loved it as he loves everything else: loudly, wholeheartedly, with burning passion and no restrains. His knee had been injured from a rookie mistake early on, but he had pushed his limits for years, gone as far as he could. Because that’s who Jackson is: the embodiment of a heart and all it stands for. Fencing, for Jackson, had been what literature and teaching are to Jinyoung—devotion, vocation, the heart’s stubborn demand.

The issue is that, now, he may be considering Jackson to have been right all along, which does _not_ bode well, as Jackson is quite fond of saying foolish things. He has his share of insightful moments, tender-hearted that he is after all, and sometimes, just sometimes, Jinyoung forgets about this other side of him. The side few have the privilege of seeing, of knowing; Jackson is so _loud_ all the time, there’s no other word to describe him, larger than life, an energy so immense it’s a mystery how it fits inside a single body. If Jinyoung is an idealistic soul, Jackson is an impatient one, his attentions and interests all over the place. And yet, and still, here Jinyoung is, wanting to bash his own head against a wall for acting like a starry-eyed romantic loser, like Jackson had constantly predicted he would one day.

It begins surreptitiously. When Jaebeom leaves, Jinyoung lies down on his yo, dozes off into a fitful sleep for a couple of hours to jolt awake with his heart hammering in his chest. He stares at the ceiling. Breathes in, breathes out. But instead of drifting to the familiar memories of Seoul his thoughts take a wild turn, and he allows himself to be carried away by these drowsy, hazy scenes that emerge like faded screenings of a movie.

Jaebeom sprinting up the subway stairs to exit the station while Jinyoung rushes down at the same time to catch the upcoming train. The two of them crossing a sidewalk amongst the same crowd, only to part ways into opposite directions at last second. Jinyoung sitting by the window on the bus Jaebeom is supposed to hop on, a last seat available at his side, but Jaebeom stopping to tie his shoelaces and missing the bus in the end. Jinyoung pushing out the door of a café and walking away, and Jaebeom pulling it to go in five seconds after that.

He closes his eyes, and the script is written behind his eyelids, unfinished. There’s a name on the top of the page, a foreign word Jinyoung has read somewhere he can’t place: _Desencontros._ The temporary synopsis is short, _Nothing remarkable conspires in their favour, BUT._ He pictures himself connected to Jaebeom by a red string that is all tangled up and full of knots.

Except—this isn’t a movie. This isn’t a drama. This isn’t a book.

These are their lives, and their paths have led them both here, to this point, knots finally coming undone, and they have found each other.

They have found each other.

What an ironic twist of fate, Jinyoung thinks as he falls asleep. Years sharing the same city, but it has taken him moving across the country to find Jaebeom.

It feels like coming home. This feels like coming home.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey. so i found this doc from april 6 and it's nothing
> 
> but as i'm not really writing rn bc you know life i'll leave it here as well 
> 
> it's an old draft and unedited like the rest of the fic

His knocking at Jaebeom's door vibrates all the way through his fingers and arms, finds its way to his heart, and his heart vibrates in return. It knocks back impatiently, eager to throw open its own doors if it has to. Jinyoung breathes in, entirely for the sake of enjoying the smell of summer that doesn't carry abhorrent hints of sweaty crowds and sewage odour, and not at all for the ridiculous fact that he's nervous about seeing Jaebeom.

July is agonizingly sticky. He shrugs off his waterproof jacket just as Jaebeom opens the door to stare astoundly at him.

"Hey! What are you doing here!?"

"It's Sunday. I got back today." Jinyoung knits his brow, aggrieved, tries to avoid a grimace. There's no doubt that his cheeks and ears are flushing an embarrassing tone of crimson, probably his entire face and neck, too, at Jaebeom's unenthusiastic welcome. He focuses on breathing, on the peaceful sound of the summer drizzle and how it seems to mute the world around them, the mountains shying away under layers of mist like they had on the day of his first arrival. Mountains hidden behind a city of glass and metal in Seoul, and here, everywhere, everywhere, everywhere.

"Sorry. I should've texted. You look busy."

"No!" Jaebeom says hotly. His disheveled black hair points at odd directions, face sweaty, very dark pouches under wide, alarmed eyes. "I meant, like, well, it's the middle of the afternoon. This is the first time I see you in the daytime. You caught me off guard."

Jinyoung flushes deeper. He'd been so _eager_ to _see_ Jaebeom—"Oh. You're right."

They gawk at each other a little awkwardly. Jinyoung takes in the sight of Jaebeom in daylight; oversized white t-shirt, black basketball shorts, barefoot—he's afraid to be _ogling,_ even though he's instantly captivated by Jaebeom's legs, so he turns his gaze to Jaebeom's complexion curiously. He spots them easily, the two moles above his left eye, the speckles of tiny beauty marks across his face; what startles him is the soft appearance of his skin. The slight sharpness of features is still there, sharp cheekbones, sharp jaw, sharp eyes, but staring at him now Jinyoung can't help but wonder if his face would feel as milky-soft to the touch as it looks. He flounders, clearing his throat.

"Hi."

"Hi. Come in," Jaebeom invites quietly, gentle as always, as gentle as the light rain thudding against the roof. "Sorry for the mess. I didn't even realise it's Sunday already."

"Have you slept at all this weekend?" asks Jinyoung. He arranges his muddied sneakers neatly at the entrance where Jaebeom's own clutter of shoes lay in a disorderly heap, hangs his jacket on the coat rack. Nora sidles up to him, headbutting his socked feet and his ankles, and he bends down to pick her up. "Hi, baby."

Jaebeom stands by the kitchen door and gapes at Jinyoung like he's grown a second head. "Did you just call my cat _baby?_ "

"No," Jinyoung says smoothly. "Seriously, have you slept? Hearing things, looking like a Uni student who's two weeks behind on coursework and is ready to lie down on the floor and die..."

"I've been...Busy." Jaebeom frowns. "Is that personal experience?"

"Jackson." Jinyoung walks slowly to the bookcase to explore it again with Nora purring in his arms. He wouldn't define himself as a shy person exactly, maybe reticent or self-contained, but right now he _feels_ _shy_ , can't maintain eye contact with Jaebeom for some reason, so he scans the shelves thoroughly. Jaebeom's books are categorized into Eastern literature and Western literature. Next to the Murakami paperbacks, on the top shelf, there are books by other Japanese writers Jinyoung has also read or at least recognizes the names, like Kōbō Abe and Osamu Dazai, but he's never even heard of most of them. "Japanese literature fan?"

"What?" Jaebeom asks absentmindedly, watching the exchange between Nora and Jinyoung. He blinks rapidly as if to get rid of his stupor. "Oh. No, not really. Apart from Murakami, those were all gifts or recs from a friend. He liked contradicting people and expectations. So he majored in Japanese lit instead of Korean lit."

"A friend or a _friend_ friend?" Jinyoung teases, albeit not able to bring himself to glance at Jaebeom.

"Want some coffee?" Jaebeom mumbles as he darts into the kitchen. "Wait, I'm out of coffee. I think I've some homemade sikhye left? Mum's speciality. Fuck, no, I don't. Your only choices are a half empty bottle of soju or plain water. Sorry."

"I'm good." He lets Nora jump to the floor and follows Jaebeom. "Hey. Do you want me to go? You should try to get some rest before your brain melts and slips out from your ears."

"Bold of you to assume I have one," Jaebeom deadpans, expressionless, and that lasts a total of five seconds before he dissolves into laughter, the absurd open-mouthed, noiseless one. 

Jinyoung bears the weight of his love like pressure points on his body, but he hasn't been able to tell love from sorrow in a long time. Glancing at Jaebeom now, as Jaebeom fumbles with something in the sink below a square window, makes it difficult to pinpoint exactly where a sudden ache blooms sharp, sharper. After a weekend around Jackson's unabashed displays of affection he barely registers reaching out his hand to touch Jaebeom's arm, unexpected, gentle, fingers wrapping around the crook of his elbow.

"Hey," he murmurs, noticing Jaebeom's stiffness. The old and rusty hook attached to his heart hitches, tugs at it mercilessly—the familiar tugging of heartstrings that reminds him of the last time he'd seen his mother, _You can keep running away all you want, Youngie, it won’t matter in the end. There will be an unceasing pull at your heart at all times because it knows where home is and it knows when home is calling you back. It is part of you as much as you are part of it._ "Want me to go?"

"No. Stay," Jaebeom says, as quietly as he'd said _come in_ , so Jinyoung does. He stays.


End file.
